The Incident
by Dr. Emma Hamish Winchester
Summary: It was the worst night of Reid's life until Hankel, and he didn't have his team to come save him. Spencer was sitting in the library at his high school, working, when one of the popular girls handed him a note. The events that followed would scar him forever. Please read and review!
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Hello everyone! I have not abandoned my other fics I swear, I just wanted to do this and I am hoping it will help me get the wheels of inspiration turning for everything else.

I do not plan on this being a long fic. Somewhere between three and five chapters I should think will be sufficient, but it may go longer if needed. It's just that every so often we learn slightly more information about this specific event in Reid's life and every time we do it becomes slightly more horrifying, especially when taken in context of his age and everything that was going on in his home life at the time. Please read and leave a review! I am trying to improve my writing, and feedback encourages me to keep updating.

Anyway, we join our intrepid 12-year-old hero at his Vegas high school, where he thinks his life is about to take a turn for the better…

I do not own Criminal Minds or its characters

* * *

Chapter 1

* * *

_Meet me behind the field house tonight at six. Tell no one. Wear a blindfold. ;)_

Alexa Lisben. The note Harper handed to him had been her handwriting; Spencer was sure of it: all curlicues with hearts over the i's. He could picture her now; the most beautiful girl in school, her perfectly styled blond hair tumbling over her shoulders onto one of those extraordinarily tight shirts of hers, smiling and laughing at something he said. _She_, of all people, liking _him_. He liked her, of course, had in fact been struggling not to stare at her in wondering awe for several months now, but he had never imagined the feeling might be reciprocated. He was just a kid after all, and moreover a freak, the lowest of all the pariahs. Even the other outcasts avoided him. Alexa wasn't even supposed to know he existed.

Of course, she had to be at least _somewhat_ aware. They had been paired together in chemistry, after all, and she hadn't even protested the arrangement. Although she hadn't done any of the work on the group projects… but that was fine. She was busy and hadn't had time. She had explained it all very clearly.

He could hear the gravel crunch under his feet as he slowly felt his way forward. The schoolyard was quiet at this hour, and the darkness imposed by the blindfold lent a strange otherworldly feeling to the entire endeavor. It seemed strange to even be here, he was normally so cautious, but that contributed too. An entirely different world where anything was possible, where he took chances, where even he might be accepted as something more than the freak his mind made him.

"Hey." Her musical, almost hypnotic voice drifted toward him.

Spencer smiled, "Wow. I didn't think you'd actually be here."

"What do you mean?"

He paused, searching for the right words. "I thought… Maybe it was some sort of joke. You know, I'd come out here and make an idiot of myself." He still could hardly believe it. It felt like some sort of dream, like at any moment he would wake up in his bed, lonely and alone. A boy's first crush is a powerful thing, and his mind had built her up accordingly.

"Of course it isn't. Why would it be?" He heard rustling as the 17-year-old bent over to put her hands on his chest.

Her lips were soft as she started kissing his neck, and he could feel her breath wafting warmly over his skin. The teenager's experienced hands moved over him, touching, feeling, grasping, moving from his hair to his back and even venturing lower, before finally finding his chest and starting to fumble with the buttons of his shirt.

Her silky voice muttered against his skin as she started unbuttoning. She whispered how hot he was, how much she had been thinking about doing this and so much more, and other things that made him feel a little excited but mostly very confused.

"I, uh, I haven't ever…really…done this…um… before…"

She laughed softly, "Don't worry, I'll be gentle."

Her hands drifted over his bare chest now, her words growing dirtier as she groped him.

That was when the laughing started.

Spencer pulled away, startled, ripping off the blindfold as he did so. He stared, first at the entire senior class crowded nearby laughing at him, then turned to Alexa. He searched her face, desperate to find the same shock and horror he was feeling. He longed to read in her eyes that she hadn't known, that she was as much of a victim as he was.

Alexa was smiling with the same sadistic amusement as the rest. Tears welled in his eyes. He had thought she cared about him. True, they hadn't interacted much, but when they had she had been sweet, even kind. He hadn't thought…

"What? You actually thought I _liked _you?" She laughed cruelly. "Oh my _God_ you're so stupid. Me. date a little weirdo _alien_ like you. You must be out of your mind."

It was a trap… had been a trap. She had lured him here on purpose. Spencer wondered what they had planned for him, although this was enough. What… Why… What had he done to her? Why…

Spencer stared at her, heartbroken and betrayed, then turned and ran, desperate to escape. He made it only a few feet before strong hands found him, and he cried out in fear as they lifted him fighting and struggling into the air and carried him back towards the football team. "NO! NO, PLEASE! I'M SORRY!"

"Shut up, Freak." Brandon's voice sounded beside his ear.

Spencer immediately realized what this was about. Brandon Taylor had been the bane of his existence. The principal's son, he desperately felt the need to prove himself a rebel and had far too much leeway to do it in. Brandon had quickly recognized Spencer's useful potential and set about exploiting it, first forcing the genius to do his homework and provide cheat sheets for tests, then expanded his operation to a business when it worked. He sold material to the other students and beat or tortured the child if he refused or failed to deliver. When Spencer tried to go to the staff about the abuse, even showing them bruises and scars as evidence, they first penalized him for fighting and told him bullies were a part of growing up, then when he persisted responded that he was clearly trying to cover for troubles at home and threatened to send CPS for a home check. That immediately frightened him into silence. Spencer was all too aware of what would happen if CPS was sent. They would discover the schizophrenia and single-parent household, his mother would be declared unfit and he would be removed from the home, there was no question. He would not risk that. Since then he carefully hid the injuries with makeup, high collars and long sleeves, terrified of anyone seeing his bruises.

Last week Brandon had demanded a cheat sheet for the chemistry midterm. Spencer, utterly sick of the entire operation, provided one but slightly changed one coefficient in most of the formulas, knowing the bully wouldn't sufficiently fact-check before distributing it. More than half the class proceeded to fail. Retribution had been inevitable, but he hadn't expected this.

Brandon and several other football team members started to tear at his clothes, beginning to strip him. His unbuttoned shirt was first, then they started to unfasten his pants. Spencer fought hard and managed to bite a hand that strayed too close.

He felt his teeth close around it. Flesh tore and he tasted blood as his teeth sank through the skin.

"_It takes the human jaw approximately the same amount of effort to bite through a finger as a baby carrot."_

The fact scrolled through his head, in the same crisp, neat font as the book in which it had first appeared. And while he hadn't gotten a finger, the fleshy base of the thumb would do.

"OW! What the HELL! You little BASTARD!" Curses streamed from the boy in question as he ripped his hand away, bleeding profusely. Tired of his resistance, they threw the child on the ground and started punching and kicking him repeatedly, yelling obscenities with every blow.

They were muscular 18-year-old athletes, men really, and every one was easily twice Spencer's size. There was very little the undersized 12-year-old could do as they continued to beat him.

"Come on, you had enough yet?" His vision was blurring by the time the question was asked.

Angered by his silence, Brandon asked again, each word punctuated by a vicious kick, "I. Said. Have. You. Had. Enough!" Spencer nodded as he coughed blood onto the ground. Every breath hurt, and he suspected a couple of cracked ribs.

After that he was quiet and subdued as they ripped off each item: his pants, then shoes, then socks were peeled away. Resistance just wasn't worth it; it would be less painful to simply let them complete their intentions. He didn't struggle again until they grabbed at his underwear.

"Please…" The word was mournful, begging, one last cry for mercy. Most people would have been reduced to tears by the pitiful look in the waifish child's large brown eyes. The monsters only laughed, hands grabbed his waistband, and then the garment was gone, his last defense against the prying eyes and hands of his tormentors.

They picked him up again and carried him, protesting weakly, to the goalpost. The crowd, in reality only twenty or so, seemed endless as Spencer stared out at them. His hands were wrenched roughly behind him and bound around the cold metal. He could not fight, could not run, could not even move to cover himself as he stood there, shame and terror forcing tears to his eyes, feeling violated and utterly vulnerable and so very very alone. James, the boy he had bitten, walked up to him, grinned, then took off Spencer's glasses and dropped them on the ground. There was a sickening crunch as James ground them into the dirt with his heel.

The torment continued. Taunts and occasional blows rained down on him from the other members of his class, even joking derogatory discussions of his body among the girls as if he were a piece of meat or a doll. Alexa's high, musical laugh could be discerned among the others as she mocked the physical effects her ministrations had had on the child. He saw flashes as a few of the students took photos; souvenirs, he supposed, of their 'fun' night.

Spencer knew that Brandon, and likely others, had been drinking; he could smell it on their breath, which brought up an entirely new set of problems. He had read about bystander effect and mob mentality, enough at least to know how quickly such a situation could escalate. With alcohol added to the mix… he hated to think how easily it might get out of control.

He couldn't see at all. Between the darkness and his own myopia his surroundings were nothing more than a blur. The camera flashes exploded into multifaceted rings of light among the vague oscillating human shadows. The trees twisted above them like thin towering dark tendrils and behind it all extended a fuzzy blackness.

The schoolyard was mainly scruffy greyish grass that was starved for nutrients by the poor desert ground, but the gravel the goalpost sat in felt like a million pins on his bare feet and he found himself shifting his weight uncomfortably from side to side, searching fruitlessly for some relief.

Spencer shivered. The blows were becoming less frequent, with the downside that for the first time he noticed the cold metal pressed against his back, freezing his skin and forcing him to stand ramrod straight. The ropes dug into his wrists, and the way they were tied made his shoulders ache.

He couldn't see and hadn't been paying attention, and so was not prepared when a broken piece of brick came hurtling out of the darkness, sending stabs of pain exploding through his head as blood oozed from a large gash on his forehead. He froze, head bowed submissively, waiting to see what effect this escalation would have on the lynch mob.

What would it be, stoning or release? Either was possible; it depended on how far the mob mentality had gone. So he stood, helpless, his heart pounding with fear and adrenaline as he awaited his fate.

To his surprise a hush fell over the group, the high of violence and alcohol that had made them invincible brought down with a crash to hard, sober reality by the excessive attack.

The only sound was the victim's harsh breathing as he battled the pain and awaited his fate.

"HEY! What the hell are you doing?!" Brandon stormed over towards the miscreant who had thrown the brick and grabbed him by the front of his shirt. Spencer suddenly realized Brandon had never left marks anywhere not easily hidden and wondered whether it had been on purpose. Brandon was hardly stupid. He blinked blood out of his eyes as he tried to watch the slight altercation, the substance obstructed his vision and threatened to glue his eyes shut as it coagulated.

He had been so focused on the problem of the blood that he suddenly realized he hadn't noticed the conversation shift. Students were collecting their belongings, talking somberly and shooting awkward glances at him as they prepared to leave. Flashlight beams scanned the ground, searching for misplaced items. _"Ensuring they don't leave any evidence to link them to the crime scene."_ Spencer bitterly thought to himself.

"Shouldn't you cut him down?" A girl stood about a yard away from him, Susan Hastings if he recognized the voice correctly. She was a sweet girl, quiet, generally reading in the back of the class. He was surprised to see her here, or indeed that she had been invited at all.

The plea that tried to escape his throat came out as barely a moaning whimper, not a word at all.

"Nah. The brat would only go whine about us to his parents. Better to leave him. Someone will find him in the morning anyway." Parker, he thought, put his hand on Susan's shoulder and started to lead her away.

His last chance. "Please!" It came out this time, high and weepy but audible. The pair stopped. "Please. I have to go home." How long had his mom been alone in the house? Spencer hated to think. "My parents will be worried about me. They are probably already looking. If you release me now… I promise I won't tell anyone. I'll say I went for a walk and got lost. Just let me go home." His voice nearly broke at that. After all, no matter what he told them no one was looking. No one was coming. His imaginary Nice Normal Functioning Parents weren't sitting up all night calling hospitals and police stations or combing every inch of ground between the house and the school with flashlights. He didn't even have friends to ask after him, they had all drifted away as he became increasingly secretive and isolated after his father left. He wouldn't let them come to his house, didn't have time to play at theirs, and then he skipped six grades and started his senior year of high school, so they no longer even saw him in class.

No, there was no one. For all intents and purposes he was alone in the world.

Susan hesitated, but Parker interrupted before she could say anything, "Hey guys! I think ET wants to phone home!" Laughter ensued from the others and the moment was gone.

He watched them all walk off into the distance, talking and laughing amongst themselves, and Spencer wondered if any of them would think about him later that evening. Would Alexa sit down to dinner and think about him, how she had lured him to his doom? The alluring blond siren didn't even glance back as she walked to her car, and it was with a heavy heart that he realized just how little he meant to her, a plaything to be used then tossed aside.

* * *

It was dark and quiet with them all gone. Darkness had settled across the wide expanse; creeping, reaching fingers that sought to consume the tiny pools of warmth given by the poles scattered here and there. His hands twisted in their bonds, tentatively testing their strength before giving up.

Fear of the dark was utterly illogical, he knew that. Regardless of how unlikely it was that something would happen, at present he was entirely incapable of defending himself. Worrying without the capability of action was pointless; his energies were best spent elsewhere. Spencer briefly shut his eyes, determined to ignore the monsters his mind insisted on conjuring out of the night.

He couldn't help thinking about what Parker had said, that someone would doubtless find him in the morning. As much as he hated the thought of anyone else being privy to his humiliation, it did bring a slight sliver of hope. If the first adults to come filtering into the school Friday morning saw him standing there bound and naked with blood dripping down his forehead, it would be impossible to ignore. They couldn't possibly argue that the injuries were sustained at home or in a fight; they would have to admit the other students were culpable. None of his classmates would ever be able to hurt him again.

Tears of relief sprang to the child's eyes at the thought of an end to his suffering. Never again would he be beaten, or trapped in a locker for hours on end, or peed on, or his head forced down in a toilet until he nearly drowned, or subjected to any of the other sadistic tortures the adolescent mind is capable of inventing. It was hard enough trying to complete all his high school curricula in a single school year and take care of his mother, doing so while being terrorized was nearly impossible.

Yes, someone would come in the morning and he could go to the hospital. He just had to last the night.

Time passed, the fingers turned to talons, then the talons turned to horrible hooded monstrosities, looming out of the darkness, coming for him. Panic gripped him and kept its terrible hold as he desperately reminded himself of basic logic and statistics: the chances his brain wasn't lying to him were so infinitesimal as to be irrelevant. He knew he was actually safer now by himself then he had been surrounded by his class. It made no difference. His hands twisted feverishly in their bonds, worsening his injuries, as he delineated each shadowy shape and reminded his imagination of the trees and signposts they had been in the light.

And of course, it was then that he again remembered the issue with his plan: Mom. She was in the house by herself.

Surely, he reasoned with himself, she would be alright. She was a grown woman after all, his mother in fact. She should be worrying about him, not the other way around. If he stayed here everything would be all right; he could finally be safe. It was hardly as if she was going to burn the house down.

An image of his mother burning the house down rose in his mind and stuck there, and he set in earnest to freeing himself.

A slow, careful revolution around the pole, feeling with one foot all the way, revealed nothing sharp he could use to cut the ropes. The pole itself likewise proved useless, smooth and without any protrusions.

Spencer sighed and twisted his hands around, trying to feel out the knots. Upon examination there proved to be only one, simple and standard but pulled quite tight, in a way that would require some extended effort to untie. The rope itself tightly wrapped individually around his wrists, then crossed back around both together. He could not simply slip out of it. As difficult as it would be, untying the knot was his only option.

And so began the impossible task. Carefully he worked at the bind, struggling until his wrists were rubbed raw to insert his finger into the loop and work it loose. The progress was slow, with frequent breaks as his wrists cramped from the uncomfortable position he had to twist them to in order to reach it.

Slowly he felt it working; the loop enlarged then worked loose. With excitement he repeatedly pulled his wrists apart to finish the job.

Blood soaked the rope by the time it gave way and Spencer finally collapsed to the ground. He lay there for few moments, gasping, trying desperately to stave off shock and pain and gather the strength to move. He reminded himself he had to move, all of this was pointless if he couldn't get home.

Mom. He had to get to Mom.

Eventually he barely made it off the ground, crawling desperately through the dead grass and dirt in search of his clothes. He couldn't go anywhere naked and blind.

He found them a few minutes later, scattered carelessly some ways off. They were all there, although most were thoroughly trampled and ripped to shreds. His shoes were the only items intact, covered in mud and… other things he didn't really want to identify, but usable. His glasses he found next to the goalpost, smashed. James had been thorough, only a few large shards clung to the twisted metal. Spencer put them on anyway, they were better than nothing and he needed to know if a car was coming. The clothing, what was left of it, was next. Destroyed as they were, they would cover him, and home was too far to go barefoot. An outlet for a hose behind the bushes along the front of the school left his shoes soaked but clean. Bruised, bloodied, exhausted but determined, Spencer made a mental note to stop riding the bus and take his bike in future as he began to limp the long journey home.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: I know this fic didn't ease into things as slowly as I would have liked, but it was originally going to be a one-shot. Anyway, here is the rest of the night, after this we can move on to the aftermath of it all.

Please review; I would really appreciate it. If you don't like it tell me why, and if you do… well, I love you. I doubt the other chapters will be uploaded quite as fast as this one; I already had this finished.

I do not own Criminal Minds or its characters.

* * *

Chapter 2

* * *

It was past midnight when Spencer finally limped through the door. The night's events had left him cold and exhausted, not to mention the pain and stiffness caused by his injuries. He couldn't wait to get inside, to wash off the dirt and blood and horror and crawl into bed for a few hours' sleep.

That hope died as he stepped into the entryway. He could hear hysterical muttering drifting through the house and with a heavy heart realized a long night was in store. It was a good thing he had come home when he did.

The boy wandered mournfully through the house, following the noise, then froze as he entered the family room. His mother had been fine that morning: happy and lucid. She had contentedly told him about the day's upcoming lectures at breakfast and he had nodded along, pretending for her benefit that he hadn't read (and largely written) the syllabi, that he hadn't graded the papers in her bag, and that he wasn't going to push her out the door into the car so she actually got to work before she forgot what day it was. Still, she had been happy; that was the main thing.

That was gone now. Diana paced the room; unkempt, her long blond hair wild from continually running her fingers distractedly through it. A hammer hung loosely from the other hand, and she muttered endlessly about the government and listening devices in the walls.

A number of holes in the nearest wall revealed the purpose of the hammer.

Her morning medication had been hidden in her breakfast; his latest and most successful in a series of efforts to get her to take them. Clearly she had found a way around it; he would have to find yet other method. The hammer too, would need a new hiding place. He generally tried to keep all dangerous chemicals and potential weapons out of sight and reach; a subtle form of child-proofing that hopefully wouldn't be noticed.

Spencer knew he would have to deal with the situation, as the seconds ticked by it only worsened, but he was too exhausted. The mental and physical toll of the evening had been excruciating, and the thought of handling anything else was unbearable.

"Mom?"

The word was somewhere between a croak and a whimper, and Diana didn't seem to hear. The pacing continued, the muttering more fevered. She was stealing glances at the wall now, as though readying herself to launch another attack with the hammer.  
Spencer forced himself out of his stupor of exhaustion and self-pity. The physical pain was pushed to the back of his mind, all focus now on the matter at hand. He had to get the hammer.

"BAM!" … "BAM!" … "BAM!"

While he stood there, trying to formulate a plan, she had returned to her task. Three more holes marred the plaster and she showed no signs of slowing her pace.

"Hey Mom?" His voice was tired, but surer this time, an effort to attract attention rather than a sorrowful cry. She still didn't seem to notice.

He edged closer, trying to force himself into her field of vision. As he did so he stole furtive glances at the wall and lowered his voice as if concerned about someone overhearing. He also softened his tone to a calm, soothing sound as one might when talking to a frightened child or spooked horse. "Hey Mom? I have an idea. It's _really_ late right now… so… what do you say we just watch what we say for tonight. We can go to bed; that way they can't gather any information. Then… In the morning, we can go out somewhere and discuss what to do. Somewhere public; no bugs, no agents; just us."  
Based on prior experience, Spencer had little confidence in logic as a resolution. As he spoke the boy had been edging slowly closer, and now he reached out one hand to take the weapon.

This was evidently more than Diana could handle. She shrieked and lashed out, catching her son in the arm. Every inch of his body already ached, and Spencer had to stifle a scream as the hammer sent jolts of pain radiating through him. Despite this he kept his feet and quickly launched himself back at the taller woman, grappling for the weapon with a strength born of desperation.

Finally he wrestled it from her. Diana collapsed sobbing into a chair as Spencer stashed the item under a couch: out of reach and out of sight, where hopefully she would forget about it until he could retrieve it later. Then he tentatively approached her.

His arm still pained him tremendously, but he reminded himself that it wasn't her fault. Not really. She didn't know what was happening, lately she had trouble even admitting she was sick. She hadn't even asked about his ripped clothes, smashed glasses, and clearly visible injuries, which further revealed just how far gone she was tonight.

"What's wrong?"

She did not respond. He moved closer, directly beside the chair where he could put a hand on her arm. "What do they want, Mom? Why are they watching us?" He had hope that perhaps if he could make her explain the delusion, maybe he could help her out of it. Logic had little role in her delusions, often forcing it into the situation proved confusing enough to end the immediate problem. Besides, playing along generally proved the correct choice.

"We can't talk about it, they're listening!" She almost yelled. Her voice had a furious bitter edge. Her hands had returned to rubbing through her hair. Long, matted locks hung in her face and created a tangled cloud around her head.

"Do you want to go outside?"

Diana paused, slowly staring around the room with frightened eyes, before finally lowering her face into her hands and shaking her head.

Her right hand remained at her face as she started to chew on the backs of her fingers, a sure sign of internalized fear and nervous energy. She seemed calmer now, if still volatile. Spencer nodded, "Okay. Why are they listening?" His tone was as quiet and soothing as ever. "It would have been a lot of trouble to break in and wire the house, they must have had a reason." He paused.

"Mom? Did you hear me?"

Suddenly she seemed to change, although not in response to his words, and for the first time she turned to stare at him. Seconds passed, then one delicate hand shakily brushed his cheek. When she finally spoke it was flat and full of quiet terror, "They're going to take you away from me."

Spencer's heart broke for her. Somewhere deep down, beneath the madness and delusions, she understood the precariousness of their situation. He tried to protect her; he took care of everything and he was certain she had no conception of the extent of their real problems. He would have given anything for a job; no one would hire a twelve-year-old, especially one who looked even younger.

She didn't know how hard it was to pay a mortgage and bills that had previously been supported on a lawyer's salary on her much more meager one. She didn't know he carefully bought groceries, skipping meals so that she always ate to maintain the charade, and she hadn't noticed that while his clothes were well cared for, they were worn and mended, always too small or too large for his thin frame. She certainly didn't know anything of the abuse he suffered at school, or that he lived every day in fear of CPS discovering her condition. He hid these things from her, hoping to keep things normal. She had enough imaginary problems without worrying about the real ones.

Spencer forced a confused smile and a slightly more jovial tone, "I'm not going anywhere, Mom. Why would the government even want me?"

She was silent again, for a long time, staring ahead at the wall and biting her fingers.

Finally he nodded, backing away and gently tugging on her hand in an effort to lead her toward the stairs.

"How about we go to bed, huh? Come on, you have work and I have school." She ignored him. "Mom, please?"

It took a few more attempts, but finally she allowed herself to be led upstairs. Spencer made sure she changed her clothes and brushed her teeth then put her to bed, reminding her to sleep rather than read.

His next stop was the hall bath, where he started the water before catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror. The reflection was terrifying; a dirt-streaked, wild-eyed mess topped by a mass of unruly wavy hair, likewise caked with blood and dirt. He recalled his decent into multiple ditches on his way home as he avoided being spotted by passing cars. He doubted they had done much for his appearance. The gash on his forehead had scabbed over, leaving a trail of dried blood mixed with dirt cascading down the left side of his face like something from a horror movie. More blood was smeared around his mouth from biting James. His entire body ached.

Undressing revealed more. Tiny cuts dotted his arms and legs (he readily recalled the bramble patch he had to thank for it), and while the arm the hammer had hit thankfully didn't seem broken it was already swelling and unusable. The brutal beating when he dared to resist being stripped had left his torso a mass of darkening bruises, and a ring of bloody, mangled, dirt-covered skin marked each wrist, his souvenir of his escape. Worst, of course, were his cracked ribs. Each motion was agony. Every discarded item aggravated either his arm or his ribs and he had to bite back moans and cries to keep his mother from hearing his pain.

Spencer sighed in relief as he finally stepped into the shower. While the soap stung his cuts, the hot water was blissful on his aching body. He desperately needed to be clean. Somehow it went beyond the skin, as if he could eliminate the shame and humiliation along with the grime if he just scrubbed hard enough.

The rest was easier. He discarded his ruined clothes and glasses, violently shoving them deep in the garbage then tying and taking out the nearly empty bag. Deep down he felt that if the evidence was gone it would all be okay; he could make it so it never happened at all. An ibuprofen helped manage the pain, then he bound up his cracked ribs and put bandages on his forehead and wrists. Hopefully that would be enough without professional care.

Finally, around three in the morning, he crawled into bed. His alarm was set for six, although he had no idea how he was going to walk into class with his attackers and pretend everything was fine. Just the thought was unbearable.

He was so exhausted that seconds later he was asleep.

* * *

_Spencer walked down an endless hallway. Chair rail stretched down the length, drawing him towards a single door at the very end. Slowly he made his way down it, with each step it only seemed to stretch further, longer and longer, the door at the end an unobtainable goal._

_Something was on the other side, something important._

_Time seemed to go on forever before he reached out a hand to grasp the knob. The door creaked as it swung open, basement stairs as long as the hallway had been stretched out before him._

_He stepped off the ledge toward the top stair, then suddenly toppled into a dark abyss. _

_Falling _

_Falling_

_Deep into the dark_

_Surrounded by eyes and cruel laughter_

_Hands grabbed at him as he fell_

_Lips whispered against his neck_

_Laughter_

_Falling_

_Falling_

* * *

Spencer barely made it to the bathroom before throwing up. He did not yet know enough about trauma, abuse, and molestation to understand why. He only knew his heart was racing a mile a minute as he drowned in fear and panic.

He didn't understand. It wasn't the first time he had had that dream, but always before he went down the stairs into the basement. It ended when he tried to look behind the dryer. Never had the stairs simply disappeared.

The boy collapsed sobbing against the cold tile. He hadn't cried before, hadn't grieved, not in the two years since his father left. He hadn't had time. Between school, Diana's college courses and her care he was practically holding down three jobs while lying to every single adult in his life. His own emotional and even physical needs he put very much on a back burner. Something had to give, and Spencer had finally hit that wall.

He wanted his life back. He missed his friends, playing chess in the park, his debate club… everything. Just the safety and security he had always taken for granted. He hated being scared and cold and hungry all the time. He hated not trusting anyone and looking over his shoulder every second. Even the therapist his old school had made him see had done nothing but hone his lying; Spencer checked out books on child psychology and studied them religiously, marking passages and carefully learning the appropriate responses to avoid any slips.

He had told the therapist he felt abandoned and that he missed his father, but that wasn't true. He was furious. How dare the man run off, leave them for whatever else he wanted to do. How dare he leave him to clean up the mess. He loved his mother, certainly, but he wasn't ready to take care of her by himself. That was his father's job, not his. Making sure the bills were paid and they ate regularly, his father's job, not his. Ensuring he could go to the hospital without fear of CPS, his father's job, not his. Anger was normal after a parent left, expected even, the books were very clear about that, but if he let himself talk about it the rest might come out. He couldn't talk about his reasons.

Spencer remembered the first time he came home bruised and crying, so long ago it felt like a different life. Dad took one look at him, demanded to know what happened, then dragged him back to the school to ream out the principal, his teacher, the other child's parents, and anyone else slightly within earshot. Who was there to support him now?

No one. That awful, selfish, irresponsible man had abandoned him. What, was he not good enough for him either? What had he done to deserve this?

On that note, what had he done to his classmates? Sure he purposely messed up the cheat sheet but that was hardly the start of it all. Why did everyone hate him? Other children called him "freak" and "alien," teachers and parents called him an arrogant show-off: "know-it-all," "brat"

Why couldn't he just be normal, loved, accepted, like everyone else?


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Hello everyone! Thank you so much for reading, favoriting, following, and reviewing this work. I appreciate it and love you. This one is kind of short, but it was finished and I wanted to go ahead and update. Next time there will be more fluff and happiness, I promise.

**ahowell1993:** That would have been an excellent idea and I wish he had done it. It would have made things so much easier. Unfortunately he didn't, and there isn't much I can do about it. **AZCatmom:** Yes, poor Spencer. He never seems to catch a break. Thankfully he is about to have a comparatively pleasant day. **Cherubim22: **Your wish is my command. Thankfully we are now past the event itself. Enjoy!

I do not own Criminal minds or its characters.

* * *

Chapter 3

* * *

The next day Diana was better and his injuries were worse.

The first thing Spencer was aware of on waking was a blinding ache. The second was that he had fallen asleep on the bathroom floor. His entire body hurt and he groaned as he forced himself to his feet.

The bruises had continued darkening while he slept. An awful mottled quilt of dark blue and black covered his torso and back, and his arm had swelled to half again its usual size. At least the cuts on his head and wrists were better, seeing them clean and scabbed in the early morning light Spencer could see that they were not so deep after all. Maybe they wouldn't even scar. Still though, there was no way he could hide it all. School was out of the question.

That meant forging a doctor's note. Easy enough, but he preferred to avoid it.

He made his way back to his bedroom to get dressed, carefully pulling on clothing to avoid aggravating his injuries. Then he clattered downstairs as loudly as his pain would allow, calling to Diana to get up for work.

Eggs today. Scrambling them was easy and mixing in some broccoli, carrots, and assorted other items was a simple way to get his mom to eat some decent vegetables. After hesitating Spencer made enough for himself as well. For once his excuse that he "wasn't hungry" would have been the truth, but he was sure he needed some proper nutrition after last night. After how much blood there had been.

He didn't want to think about that red-striped brownish water under his feet, swirling towards the shower drain.

It would be the first time in over a month that he ate a meal at home. Normally he ate lunch at school, then simply skipped most other meals. It was cheaper that way.

While he hesitated to make himself breakfast, Spencer did not hesitate at all in quickly downing some ibuprofen and coffee. He needed to get it done before Mom came downstairs. She didn't like him drinking coffee, she said he was too young for it, and he knew she wouldn't like him using it to swallow pills in lieu of water, but he desperately needed to be awake and… well, not pain-free, that wasn't going to happen… but at least pain-reduced. "_Stupid. That's not even a word,"_ He thought to himself irritatedly.

"Mom! Come on! You're going to be late!" She had an 8 o'clock today:

_ENG 580 ... Gender Constructs in Medieval Literature ... 8:00–8:50 MWF ... BFD 210_

He hadn't heard his alarm from his room, so had slept in slightly, and while thankfully his left arm was injured rather than his right his pace making breakfast was still significantly slowed.

He mentally ran through the chore list as he worked:

_*Make an appointment for after school hours to replace his glasses_

_*Go to the store for supplies to fix the wall_

_*Fix the wall_

_*Go by the library _(He always read terribly fast and remembered everything, making rereading and purchasing pointless, so a weekly visit for a new stack of books was necessary. Besides, sometimes he wanted meaningless novels and comic books, the kind of mental junk food Mom would never approve of)

The thought of going to the library was an enjoyable one. They liked him there; the librarians were helpful and kind; and running around among the books, fliting about with reference cards for a few hours, he felt a little bit like the kid he actually was. It was his playground, the closest he got to normal.

Diana walked into the room just as he finished, and the boy actually had a slight smile as he turned around with the plates.

"Spencer! What happened to you?" His mother stared at him, clearly horrified by his appearance. So, she hadn't noticed his awful state last night, just like she hadn't seemed to notice his late arrival.

Thinking of last night the smile vanished. He desperately longed to tell her. He wanted to break down and collapse in her arms like he had as a little boy, to feel comforted and safe until it stopped hurting.

He could almost hear her voice: _"Forget about them, Spencer. They don't understand you. It's all right baby._"

But he couldn't. He wasn't weak; he couldn't be. So instead he set the plates on the table and assumed a confused look, "Nothing." He paused, "I fell off my bike. I'm fine, Mom, really." His too-large plaid shirt drowned his slight frame, easily hiding his swollen arm and bandaged wrists. The only visible wound he knew of was his head.

Diana peered at him with a probing look. "You wouldn't lie to me, would you?"

"No, of course not." Seizing an opportunity to change the subject, the boy grabbed some pills and water, placing them on the table in front of her.

"What's this?"

He hated doing it like this. It had been so much easier to simply hide them in her food and avoid the conversation, but after yesterday he couldn't take chances. "Your pills. You haven't been taking them."

By the look on her face he knew this wasn't going to be easy, "There's nothing wrong with me, Spencer."

"Mom, you're sick."

"I'm fine." She paused, "That doctor is a Neanderthal."

A little of his frustration escaped onto his face at that. He thought about showing her his arm, asking her whether she had meant to hurt him if she was so sane, but never seriously considered it.

"_Please,_ Mom. Take care of yourself, for _once. _Do you remember last night?"

She was silent. He could tell that if she remembered anything at all, it wasn't accurate.

"Just take your medication, and maybe take a walk."

"Spencer-"

"It doesn't have to be much." He was almost pleading. This had been an ongoing argument. "Just walk around the green a little after your office hours. Ten minutes. Studies have shown that regular exercise has a significant effect on mental illness." The last sentence was reeled off impersonally, flatly, quickly, as if he was reading it from a book.

They stared at each other, then she sighed and seemed to relent, "If it will make you happy, Spencer, I will take them." She paused briefly. "But I won't take a walk. I am too tired today." Diana glared at him, as though daring him to argue.

He decided to take the small victory and sat back down, continuing to stare at her until every pill and drop of water was gone.

Minutes passed in awkward silence. He really tried not to do that sort of thing. It was better if she thought she was in control: a now-single mom raising her child, rather than the reality: a child forced into sudden single fatherhood trying to care for a permanent unstable toddler. He tried not to admit the full extent of it even to himself. Most of his control was behind the scenes: potential weapons and dangerous chemicals hidden where she hopefully wouldn't look, the way he got her up for work and put her to bed, monitoring her medication, monitoring her schedule, the half empty desk in her room – mostly for show – that contrasted oddly with the piled desk and locked file cabinet in his.

Spencer tried not to think about the institution brochures he had ordered in the mail, now stuffed deep in a dark corner of a desk drawer. It had felt wrong, reading them.

"_Asylum brochures," _he thought with self-hatred, before shoving it away. No. 'Asylum' conjured up Dickensian images of damp walls, straw beds, chains and caretaker abuse. These weren't asylums or prisons. They were wonderful facilities where his mother could be properly cared for and live a full, healthy life. He wasn't betraying her in exploring their options. Besides, he couldn't do anything until he was eighteen anyway.

Six years. Six years before he could make any meaningful move to help her. And next year he was going to college. Last night had forced the entire situation to the forefront of his mind.

"How was school yesterday, Spencer?"

Startled from his reflections, it took him a few seconds to answer. "Fine," came out, much too soft.

"What did you learn about? Was there anything interesting?"

_He could almost feel Alexa's lips whispering over his skin, her hands dancing over his chest, pulling at his shirt, her body pressed against him in a way that-_

"Idon'tknow." Louder, but fast enough that his words ran together. He ignored the pointed look; Diana Reid was better than anybody at seeming like she could see right through you. Then he feigned noticing the time, pretended to panic, and rushed her out as quickly as could reasonably be managed. It was transparent, and later in his life it wouldn't have worked. However, the person needed was currently several states away, counting down the days to his own high school graduation and precious out-of-state college - far away from Chicago and his 'mentor' - and had no idea Spencer Reid even existed.

* * *

With her gone he took immediate action. He had wanted to seem as normal as possible for her sake, so didn't really do much to his arm. Now he moved it inside his shirt, immobilizing it as best he could next to his chest with a makeshift sling.

Now to work. He needed new glasses, that was first, so Spencer ran to the phone. He quickly punched in the memorized number and sat, spinning in his father's office chair (moved there long since for his convenience) and listened to the ring until a voice finally crackled on the other end.

"_Reynold's Optometry, how may I help you?"_

His first move after his father left had been to change most of their medical providers. He needed things close enough that he could ride his bike to them and didn't want to risk some receptionist knowing what his father's voice sounded like. Without that concern he didn't bother changing his voice or speech patterns much: he just deepened it slightly and trusted the phone line's inherent and expected distortion to take care of the rest. People don't expect someone to sound normal on the phone, and with deepening his voice slightly – but not cartoonishly – he could reasonably pass for a rather high-voiced man.

"Yes, hello, this is William Reid. I am calling to make an appointment." Pause "We should be in your files. It's for my son, Spencer." Pause "No, I'm sorry, do you have anything sooner? It's- it's kind of urgent." Pause "Well," the boy grinned, trying and failing to suppress a slight giggle. He loved making up tales, "It's actually a funny story. You see, he was out riding his bike, and of course what does the kid do but run right into a fence." Pause "Oh no he's fine, and the bike's okay, but he landed on his glasses when he fell and they're pretty much totaled." Pause "Do you think you could work him in after school? His prescription should be current; he just needs some new frames and lenses." Pause "Okay, great. Can I just send the money with him for the copay? His mother and I don't have time to bring him and it isn't far." A longer pause this time, as she explained insurance and certain aspects of their payment policy. The important thing was that she finally agreed to let him come by himself, without a parent. "Okay. Yes…yes. Thank you."

"_click"_

Alright. First thing off the list.


End file.
